Something to Ponder (but probably only if you're me)

I've been giving this some thought; why do I have so much trouble, not so much finding, but keeping, friends? I think I may have figured out why. I have a hypothesis, anyway.

Basically, in some ways I'm less like my own person, and more like a mirror. If we're friends, then I'll invariably pick up A LOT of your mannerism, expressions, speech patterns, and ideas; and I'll do it very, very quickly. So much so that, by the end of a relatively short time period, we'll both have forgotten some of the parts at which you leave off, and I start. We'll become a bit like one person, sharing one mental wavelength. And for a time, all will be well.

However. One thing I am, is honest. I am honest about who I am, and I will be honest with you, unless you make it clear you don't want my honesty, in which case I'll shut up. Not forever, but long enough to postpone the death of our friendship.

Invariably, though, you will come to realise that, for all my inadvertent mimicry of your personal gesture and idiom, I AM actually my own person. You will learn that, on many subjects and in many ways, I disagree with you. You will learn that, for all my quiet, unobtrusive voicing of my own opinions, my beliefs are either A) rock-solid, or B) things about which I refuse to have a definite belief. Either way, you will learn that for all I enjoy hearing your opinion, and for all that I'm happy for you to keep it, your feelings/beliefs/wants/desires will have absolutely no effect on me, if they are contrary to my own.

Which is not to say that using logical, factual argument to change my mind will fail. Being unable to admit you're wrong, even when the cold hard evidence is slapping you in the face, is my DEFINITION of 'stupid'. I'd like to think I'm at least a smidgen above that. However, chances are, if you're arguing with me, you're either A) wrong yourself, or B) trying to get me to admit to an opinion on a subject which, by its very nature, is mutable/can have differing outcomes. In which case, my opinion will change accordingly.

When you realise, however, that YOU will not be the agent of change, in getting me to alter either my personal viewpoint of method of behaviour, you will become enraged. Incensed. Totally pissed off, not to put too fine a point on it.

And for all my protestations that I want to remain friends, and I don't see why you're so upset, and I really wish you'd just let it go, that'll be the beginning of the end. Whatever we disagreed about will come up in future conversations. It will sneak its way into the very fabric of our mutual existence. It will begin to permeate the very air we jointly breathe. And one day, you will make the mistake of calling me a liar/idiot--when, going by my recollections, you're the one who refused to believe the truth that was staring you in the face--and I'll respond in kind.

And if you're the kind of person who will call someone a moron, or try to paint them as a liar, because they don't take every word that falls from your lips as Gospel, you won't put up with having the same done to you. You won't see it as me returning the favour, or just giving you a little taste of your own medicine. You'll see it as being bang out of order, well worth calling off our friendship over... and if you do it enough, I'll stop trying to mend things. You'll get away with it once, everyone does, with me... you'll probably get away with it twice... but if you start to make a habit of it, I will cut you loose like the dead weight you are, and I'll keep chugging along, angry, hurt, feeling a bit vindictive, but justified in my behaviour.

And, like all those who claim to be honest, as long as the situation is just/fair/deserved, I can live with it. I may prefer mercy; but if you force my hand, justice it will be. You will lose me.

And dammit, you will miss me once I'm gone. Everyone does. I'm like a very, very low-level addiction (caffeine, chocolate, sugar) and by God, you might not want to kill yourself once I'm gone, but you'll have a damn persistent itch you can't scratch. And it will last much, much longer than you think. Which you deserve, you ignorant, narrow-minded, fake-nice....

Ahem. Forgive me. I digress.

To get back to the point; I am a mirror. I will treat you, for the most part, as you treat me. I may try to be a little nicer to you (especially if you're hurting my feelings without realising it--lead by example, etc) but eventually, although I cannot change my mind to conform to yours, I will alter my behaviour to match your own. How you respond, is a pretty good indication of the kind of person you are.

The people who don't like me, are just the people who don't like themselves.

Which explains 2 things, actually. 1) I have few friends, because few people really, truly, genuinely like themselves, and 2) the friends I do have tend to be male, because out of all the people on the planet, men are the ones who are usually the most okay with themselves. Conceited and arrogant, maybe; prone to random bouts of depression, maybe; superficial and immature, often; but reasonably well-adjusted, for the most part. But that's a topic for another day.

New Friend?

Right. Daily rant aside (because we all know I have to get these things out of my system) something nice did happen to me this week. Actually, technically speaking, it was last week--whether you count Saturday as the 6th or 7th day of the week, the Saturday preceding Monday belongs to the previous week--but in days, obviously, it was within the last 7.

Blah. Blah. Blah. I'm babbling. It happens. I'll move on.

My point was, something nice happened to me. Not that nice things don't happen to me all the time, they do, and in spite of my pessimistic and vitriolic view of my personal life, I'm actually quite a fan of life in general, I'm a regular cliche-spouting tree-hugging hippie in the main part of my soul, and I firmly believe that good things are a regular life occurrence... but this was an unexpected good thing.

Have you ever met someone, and they turned out to be SO MUCH BETTER in real life, than you thought they would be? It doesn't happen much; generally, meeting someone new goes the other way, and you wind up killing time with someone who, although they're probably a perfectly acceptable person, is about as far from your mental wavelength as a person can be.

Or they're just thick, and they use the internet to mask it. You know the type. Via IM or text, their responses are always witty enough, but they arrive a little more slowly than you'd expect. When questioned, the apparent God of Wit blames the time lapse on AOL/msn/their phone/the network they use... then, you meet them in real life, make a comment that would certainly have prompted a humourous response online, albeit after a slight delay.... and suddenly, with no technology to take the fall, you find yourself trapped in that same 10-second-delay place.

Oh, no, you think to yourself, but it's no good, you have to stay at least an hour, and make small talk with this random individual whose brain works at approximately one-third the speed of yours. Not that this makes them a bad person, you know it doesn't, and you feel like such a bitch for even thinking nasty thoughts about them... it's not their fault they're not as quick as you, and god knows, it's not like you're the sharpest knife in the drawer, you have plenty of spoon days yourself... but you cannot make yourself like someone who takes at least 5 seconds to respond to EVERY SINGLE SENTENCE you utter.

Well. That's the opposite of what happened to me on Saturday. Or maybe not the opposite--I don't think my new friend was sitting there thinking I was thick as pigshit, and that would be the opposite of the situation I've just described, wouldn't it?--but the general experience felt like the opposite of bad. It felt good. A meeting of (slightly deranged, reasonably unique, mostly intelligent) minds. 2 souls, flying along on the same wavelength, like crazy random birds who, a hundred miles apart, are in perfect formation.

Wasn't that a poetic description? I was going to come up with another descriptive sentence, but I liked that one so much, I'm just going to leave it there. Lol.

At any rate. The point is, I maybe, just maybe, just might have a new friend. And, y'know, I could use one. Though that's an interesting word choice... 'use' one... I'm not making a sexual joke (though I'm aware of the potential for innuendo in that word)... I'm pondering the action of 'using' people, i.e. to achieve one's own ends.

Luckily, in this case, the simple acquisition of a genuine friend IS the end in itself. There is no ulterior motive. Just to have some company in my loneliness, just to be a little less alone, is enough.

I'm already planning next time. I'm compiling a list of movies. Man-movies, for the most part (my favourite kind, or one of my favourite kinds) because my new friend requires an education in manly films. Although. Oh dear. What if he doesn't like them??? There's usually a reason people don't watch a certain type of film. I'm hoping the reason here is simply that he hasn't discovered the best man-films, that he doesn't have the necessary skills to find good movies to watch... but what if he just doesn't like them???

This could throw everything into chaos.

But, for once, instead of worrying (after all, he passed the first test with flying colours) I'm just going to relax. Just for today, maybe even just for a few hours, I'm going to be happy. It can't hurt me to feel happy just for a little while. Can it? No, it can't.

*raises glass in imaginary toast* So. Here's to new friends. And happiness. And rainbows and flowers and ponies and.... ahem. Sarcasm aside (it's so hard for me)... to new friends *clink*

Happy Holidays

Let me start off by saying that the subject of this post is ever-so-slightly sarcastic. Not dripping with sarcasm, not coated in it, not marinated overnight and baked in facetiousness, but there's a hint of 'yeah, right,' about it. I have nothing against the holidays per se. I claim to be, well, more or less Christian, depending on my mood that day and whether or not God's done something to piss me off, so Christmas should be okay with me; and anyway, religious or spiritual beliefs aside, there's nothing wrong with eating good food and having a little too much to drink and putting up sparkly decorations and lights on every surface in your house.

Or, if you're not what the English term 'Christian,' (where I'm from it actually means something, not so much here) there's still nothing wrong with having an extra couple of days off work, and just generally loafing about doing whatever you please. It should be a good situation for everyone involved, regardless of spiritual or ethnic or cultural considerations.

But. Not counting spring (because isn't it depressing to see the whole world bursting into bloom, Nature renewing herself, a baby boom in the animal kingdom, etc) more people kill themselves at this time of year than any other. Now why do you suppose that is?

In case you don't know, I'll share my theory. It's less of a theory, practically a fact, really.

Basically, this is a shitty time of year to be alone. And there are lots and lots and LOTS of people who are, if not technically alone, alone in every way that matters.

If your computer is your best friend--either through an internet porn or gaming addiction (the two often go hand-in-hand) or because you lack the confidence to make real-life friends--you are alone. If you're away at university, and you can't get home for Christmas, you are alone. If you're over the age of 35, and you have no spouse and/or kids of your own, you're alone.

If you've spent 5 of the last 7 Christmases without seeing your parents or siblings, and you're about to do the same thing again, you are alone. If you can't remember the last time you looked forward to Christmas, you're alone. If you swore to yourself you would never feel this way again 2 years ago, but you haven't changed anything about your situation during those 2 years, you are alone.

If you spend 2 weeks every year exchanging cards and presents and precious time with people who don't belong to you, who aren't yours, who can't love you because they don't understand you (and don't want to)... you're definitely alone.

So. Not referring to anyone specific there. But I'm going to make the tentative suggestion that if you know anyone who fits any of the above criteria, even one sentence, you keep an eye on them, at least until the first week or so of January is behind us. Pay particular attention to wifeless middle-aged men; statistically, they're the highest risk group for completed suicides. I suppose it's the spectre of old age rushing down on them, coupled with the near-certain knowledge that nothing they've done will be remembered, nothing they've done will continue, once they cease to exist.

At least I have kids. Presumably, they will continue, after I'm gone. After I'm dead, to call a spade a spade. After my lifeless corpse is shovelled into a lonely grave (though I'm sure you can be buried in a biodegradable coffin, below a little sapling, and therefore your decomposing remains can help a little baby tree to flourish. I like the idea of that.) But, I digress. My kids. They give me a purpose, and also a reason to hope... So maybe, just maybe, I'll manage to make it through this year, the same way I made it through all the others.

And come spring, I'll have a whole new list of people who might require a little extra attention. This will centre on people who feel old, have pointless jobs, and realise they're not fulfilling their potential--but I'll save that for the appropriate time. For now, Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, to anyone who can actually achieve those objectives.

And, shit. Merry Christmas to the rest of you, as well. If you get through it, things'll only get better, right? And so we'll continue telling ourselves, for as long as we can....

Love Letters

This stupid blog is becoming like a series of love letters... from me to my friends, from some of my friends to me, now even my insignificant other is getting involved.

I'm sorry to offend him. I don't wish to cause him distress. He was, up to a certain point in my life, very significant. But he threw it away, and every time he gets another chance he spits on that as well, and I'm just damn tired of it. He cannot be the person that he admits he is, and expect to share any real part of my life or who I am.

I have tried to better him, as I try to better myself. I have tried to be his sounding board, his friend, his confidant, and anything else he needs. I have often, not always but often, put his needs ahead of mine. And when I eventually stood up for myself and my rights (however badly I chose to make my stand, that's what I was doing and I had every right to) he and his whole family turned against me.

So now, I stay, but I stay for the kids. I stay, because I've got nowhere else to go. I stay, because no matter how cavalier I sometimes am with my own health and safety, there is NO excuse for taking risks with my kids. And I stay, because it is perfectly possible to live in the house with someone, and barely see them at all.

The worst part is, if he would get his ENORMOUS HEAD out of his UPTIGHT ARSE and even make some consistent effort to change, I could manage. I don't think I'll ever be able to trust him enough to fall in love with him again--and I'm certainly not in love with him now--but I could respect, genuinely like, possibly admire, and have sex with him (and that's enough, really, to make a relationship work; I mean what else do you need?).

But no. There he goes, lamenting his lot in life, bitching about how rubbish he is, yet making no move to change things, just sticking his head further and further up his rectum...

What am I meant to do with that?? I mean, really, what???

Wave Baby

Since I've broken my rule about not writing about my kids, I think it's about time I wrote something about my son. So far, he's hardly had a mention, aside from vague references to his existence. There's so much I could say, about both/either of my kids, that I hardly know where to start. The easiest way is to kind of set them in context, i.e. as foils for each other.

Because that's what they are.

My little girl, for all her sweetness and light (and she is, so incredibly, undeniably, wonderfully shiny and sweet) has another side. She is smiley, and playful, and funny, and so unique; but she is as unyielding as a brick wall. Since she's built like one, as well... suffice it to say, sometimes she is like an immovable object, and other times, she's an unstoppable force. Either way, it's her way or the high way (as, funnily enough, my own mother used to say to me when I was a child--now I've got 2 of them).

But my little boy... he's just a baby, but he's got his own little personality, and it's nearly the complete opposite. I don't mean to say that he's not smiley--he smiles and giggles all the time--and I don't mean to imply that he's any less cheerful or playful than she us, or even that he doesn't have a will of his own. He's all of those things, and his will is asserted whenever he feels the need.

But that's just it. He so rarely feels the need, to assert his will. Aside from obvious physical discomfort (and even that, he'll put up with for a while) as long as we're all together, he's cool. Whatever we're doing, it's fine with him. Unless he's exhausted, starving, or sitting in buckets of poo (buckets, mind you--a smear isn't that bad, he can ignore it) he's perfectly happy to just go with the flow.

Which is why he's my Wave Baby. Which works perfectly.

My daughter, you see, is like the moon. Moon Baby controls the tide--guess who--and the tide pulls along the Wave Baby. Of course, as the tide, I have to figure out the path to take to get where I'm going, and how to accomplish getting there, but really, that's based on what the moon requires. And in the end, we all wind up exactly where we're supposed to be, and everything's okay. And it's lovely, in some ways, going on Moon Baby's journey. It's a more interesting one than I'd have picked for myself; but sometimes it's no bad thing, to be forced to take a different path. The road less travelled, and all that.

But thank God my son is less like the moon, and more like a wave. I am learning to be more flexible, more resilient, more mutable, like water--but 2 moons fighting over me would still pull me apart. Or at least make for very stormy seas.

And just to finish on one final cliche (what difference is one more gonna make) I'll remark that where my babies are concerned, I would prefer smooth sailing.

Fragility

Sometimes people just feel fragile, don't they?

I feel very fragile, lately. I made a new friend recently, and I want to be excited; but we all know how my friendships turn out, don't we? So I'm uneasy, uncertain, unable to relax. Added to that apprehension, there are things going on in my life right now that absolutely terrify me.

I say a name every day, and it's like a prayer, but I'm not sure what I'm praying for.

One thing I spend a lot of time and energy worrying about, if not praying, is my daughter's health. She looks so tall and strong and healthy, she's such a fierce little thing, but she's only two-and-half. How much can her (comparatively) little body take? Tall and strong at two-and-half, is still only a little over three foot tall. Tall and strong at two-and-a-half, still weighs little enough that it can be carried in your arms like the baby it still is.

Standing, she comes up to my stomach, and she's so desperate and determined I can barely hold her down when she fights me. My hand (comparatively small, with it's short wide palm and stubby fingers) is still large enough to cover her tiny face. Her hands, by comparison, are not yet big enough to grasp the lid of a peanut-butter jar; and they spend so much of their time clenched in fists, as she struggles with pain and frustration and helplessness that I can barely begin to understand.

I know that to the mother of a child with a terminal illness, I would seem lucky by comparison. I know that a little girl with any one of the many fatal diseases and conditions on this earth would likely trade places with my little girl in an instant. I know that there is untold suffering the world over, and I know that some children have suffered in ways my little girl couldn't imagine.

I was a child myself, when I began shedding tears for starving Africans/Romanian orphans/whatever the charity ad of the week was. I KNOW that millions of children have suffered more than my little girl, and my heart goes out to each and every one of them.

But my little girl suffers too. My little girl is still broken, in a way I can't define. She is broken; and she is my heart. So where does that leave me?

I don't care. I would take all this pain and more, if it could help her.

Obsession

Just lately, I've been avoiding my blog. There's been a lot on my mind, and I could use that as a valid excuse, but I actually think it has more to do with what I want to write about. I'm not sure I'm brave enough.



I hate coming across as trite. I hate repeating things that've been said billions of times before. I hate struggling, searching, grasping for the perfect, unique words I want, when I know that everything boils down to the same thing with me.



Tonight, I'm not going to worry about how I sound--I'm just going to write. I'm going to write about my obsession.



Love.



I mentioned in my last entry that I'm obsessed with lovesongs, and it's true, but it's also a much broader obsession than that. Or narrower, depending upon your perspective. To say that I'm captivated by every aspect of love, entranced by all the different ways of expressing it, makes it seem like such a diverse category; then again, it's really just a way of saying I'm fascinated by love itself. I personally believe that as much as I may love song lyrics, and poetry, and romance novels (sorry, but I am a girl) what I really love, is thinking about love itself.



I love the way it feels to be in love. Not just the initial rush, when you think you might be falling, but the easy, almost casual glide of day-to-day life with the person you love. I love the passion and adventure of being swept up in the moment, of naughty deeds in public places, of frantic coupling in a car, against a wall, from behind; but I also love holding hands, cuddling under a blanket in front of a movie, giggling like a little girl over inside jokes and that thing the other person did that was hilarious, but only to the two of you. I love that.

I even love, or at least love to hate, the feeling of being in love with someone who doesn't reciprocate. I love writing bitter, furious, obsessive, despairing poetry about people who don't even care, and I love writing resigned, heartsore, bloody-but-unbowed poetry when I start not to care, either. I love being able to say that if I ever loved someone, I still love them a little bit now, even if I've made the choice to move on. I love knowing that in some cases, I have loved so strongly and been destroyed so completely that I will never truly recover.

I love knowing that for me, love is suffering. If it doesn't hurt, then I'm not really in love. I'm frightened every time I feel a pull, a yearning, toward someone new, but at the same time I'm comforted by knowing that at least I don't have to wonder; I know it will hurt, at some point.

I love that I love being in love so much that even knowing how much it hurts, I always fall in love again. I love knowing that every time I ever said, 'I'll never love anyone again,' no matter how much I tried to mean it, no matter how much I wanted to believe myself, I knew I was lying.

I love that I don't mind sacrificing myself on someone else's altar of neglect and passivity. That I realise, and accept, that I will never be loved as fully as I love. And I love the fact that I hate it, and refuse to accept it, and rail and scream and curse in the face of it.

I love that no matter how love batters me, belittles me, and in the end finally breaks me, I always return for more. I love how I make myself forget how much it hurts, and convince myself that this time will be different, better, less agonising. I love how, when people slice off tiny pieces of my heart one by one, until finally they've carved out a great whopping chunk, and then they devour it one sliver at a time, I make myself believe that I don't mind; and I kiss them still, even when I can taste my own blood on their lips.

I love that, if I loved you, I would let you slap my face and bruise my body and even break my bones. I love that I would do the same to you, if that was what you needed. I love that I believe that when two people are in love, everything they do is sacred, and even if they maim each other, die for each other, kill each other, no one has the right to say it's not beautiful.

I love that even though I'm writing about romantic love, I feel the same way about any kind of love. I love that the purer your love is, the more it's like fire, and the more chance there is of it consuming you from the inside out. I sometimes wish that love was more like water, that I could use it to cool a fevered brow, or wet dry, blistered lips, or soothe the raw, scorched flesh burnt by some other love; but I know it is not.

I love that for me, love is a disease; most of all, I love that there is no cure.

untitled happy entry

I'm tired of being unhappy. I want to write something else tonight, something that won't make me sad.

I love music. Not all music, certainly, and probably not even most music, but the music I do like, I love. And as with all things I love, I tend to get a bit obsessed. And, I have a crazily good memory, when I choose to activate it.

All things considered, if I wanted to finish this entry with nothing but lines from my favourite songs, I could definitely do it; and I reckon I could do it well enough that I wouldn't get caught. Although that would be amusing, and terribly clever of me, I'm going to decline. Instead, I'm going to focus on one of the aspects of one of my favourite types of music.

I love lovesongs, but most especially, I love lovesongs about women. Not all lovesongs about women--I hate the song, 'Woman,' though that may be because I think John Lennon + Yoko Ono = the destruction of a mostly good band and a load of worthwhile friendships--but most lovesongs to/about women are lovely.

There's a singer/songwriter you've never heard of, he was mad famous back in the day (like a decade before I was born) and his song, 'Something in The Way She Moves' is a perfect example. Slow, soft melody, low, gentle voice, and the lyrics... they're so understated, so quiet, you almost don't realise that it's a song about man battling his horrific inner demons, and only making it through because she's there, distracting him, soothing him, making him forget how much pain he's in until he's managed to work through it.

Considering the song was written by a current and/or recovering heroin addict (he was definitely an addict at the time, but I'm not sure whether he'd started the recovering bit yet) it's a powerful thing, to imagine a woman sticking beside him and actually knowing him well enough to be able to help him through all that. The image, if you can get it in your head, can't be anything less than utterly moving.

But I digress. The point is, it's a beautiful song. And I like beautiful songs. I like beautiful things, period. In fact, the key line from my favourite song is, 'man, I wish I was beautiful;' my admiration of beauty extends even to myself, in that I wish I had some.

See, I told you. Like it = love it = obsessed. Lovesongs, beauty, new people, whatever, as soon as I'm interested, I'm a goner. Untold amounts of my time, energy, appreciation and effort will drop, kerplunk! into the toiletbowl of my newest hobby. Which wouldn't be so bad, except I never seem to let go... most of the songs I loved at age 11, I still love, the friends I had then, I miss now, and the beauty obsession has been a lifelong thing.

Which is good for you, if you like me. Not so good for me, since chances are, I'll still love you long after you've moved away/lost my number/stopped replying to my emails... but that's only the case with people. A lovesong, I can keep with me wherever I go. If I really love it, I can keep it in my very head (crazy memory, remember?). And every time I play it, either audibly or in my head, I'll find something new to appreciate and enjoy.

Am I the only one who feels this way, about songs/lyrics and particularly lovesongs? I hope not, but I only know of one person who's as obsessed with lovesongs as I am, and he's imaginary... even if I'm all alone in my admiration, I still feel better for loving lovesongs. And for writing this. And for using the word 'love' approximately 800 times in a dozen paragraphs. Well that's both exaggeration and understatement, respectively, but you get the point.

I'm gonna use the word just twice more. I love lovesongs.

Even Better Than A Follower; I Have A Mother

Seems fairly obvious, I know; but that makes it no less worthy of celebration. I have a mother. And she's a damn fine example of one, too.

Without getting into a clinical diagnosis, I need to make clear the fact that I, for all my charm, wit, and general attractiveness, have some moderately serious... social/emotional issues. It's not that I can't relate to people--I'm actually pretty fantastic at getting people to open up and talk to me--it's more that I can't always get them to understand where I'm coming from. Almost all my skill at verbal communication is focused outward. If you met me, chances are you'd wind up telling me all sorts of stuff you didn't mean to, but you'd go away not knowing much about how I feel... unless you ask me a question, I have trouble actually saying what's on my mind.

Don't get me wrong. I can talk for England, and I can be by turns, amusing, empathetic, informative, playful, silly, insightful, thought-provoking, and just plain fun. As well as a tendency to verbosity and nosiness, but nevermind that. The point is, when I'm on, I'm SO on. I'm a conversational ninja.

But underneath that, I am so, so very private and withdrawn. I don't want to bore you with my story. I don't want to be a nuisance. I don't want to be selfish and narcissistic (I mean I know I am, but I'm trying to become less so).

Most of all, I want you to be as interested in me, as I am in you. But since I'm possibly THE MOST INTENSE person you'll ever meet, that's unlikely to happen. You cannot be as charmed, or fascinated, or intrigued by me, as I will be by you.

*adopts melodramatic tone* It is my gift, and my curse.

Lol. Histrionics aside, if I choose, I WILL make you feel better for having met me, and chances are, you won't think/don't know how to return the favour. And even if you did, God, I just require so much effort. Some people can do it for a little while, but no one can put up with me full-time.

Except for my mom. And I know all mothers should love their childen wholeheartedly, and be able to 'put up with' them, but that doesn't mean they do. Even leaving bad mothers out of it, not every mother is willing to continually put her child's needs ahead of her own. I know that most women couldn't have dealt with me as a child or an adolescent.

But my mom. You know that saying, about a woman being a hole, into which all the futility of the world is poured? That was me and my mom. I just poured, and poured, and poured, all my pint-sized rage and pain and suffering and aloneness into my mother's sympathetic, empathetic ear, and she gave me back love, and love, and more love on top of it. Nothing I said, nothing I confessed to (I was a naughty, but repentent, child) ever made her treat me any differently, or love me any less. My mother was forgiveness and mercy personified. And patience. My mother had, and still has, all the patience required to listen to someone talk about, and around, and over and under and though the same thing, for hours at a time, until they've processed and dissected and verbalized every subtle nuance of the matter.

And on top of her patience, and understanding, and the gentle way she reacted to everything I did and everything I was, she was so proactively loving. Every day of my life, every single day of my life as a child, I was told I was loved. Every day, I heard that I was so special, a marvel, a gift from God, and did I know how wonderful and amazing I was? Sometimes I would be looking at my mother, chattering away, and I would catch the look on her face, and I would just know that no one, ever, in the history of the whole world, ever loved anyone the way I was loved.

And I wasn't the only one who knew my mom was special. I lost track of all the times my friends told me they wished their mom was more like mine; for that matter, I lost track of all the friends that wished we could just outright swap.

I was horrified. I loved my mother. I could never imagine wanting to swap her for anyone else's mom. Then again, I could see why my friends would want to exchange mothers. I knew mine was the best on the planet.

Mostly I knew this, because she was forever telling me I was the best kid on the planet (and my sister as well, of course). Which was so silly. My sister's alright; but I was awful, lol.

But not to my mother. In my mother's eyes, I was as close to perfect as a child can be. Practically perfect, in every way. Bright, and gifted, and sweet, and thoughtful, and unique, and a hundred other brilliant things. From birth, my mother brainwashed me into believing her version of me--and to a certain extent, I achieved it.

I am not as amazing as she thinks I am; this is to the detriment of the world. If I were all that my mother believes I am, the world would surely be a significantly better place for my being in it. But I will always strive to become all that she thinks I am, and so, maybe the world will one day be a little better, for my having been in it.

Without my mother, all the darkness of the world--and all the darkness of my own soul, psyche, mind, whatever--would have consumed me long ago. Instead, because she has raised me to be the person she knows I can be, I am doing what I can to spread my own tiny bit of light around.

Even my mother can't untwist that light, as it shines out from the spiralling labyrinth of its origin (my mind), but she has at least ensured that it is shining. She has ensured that I feel worthy, special, unique enough, to have the right to say and feel and be whatever I am. And if my mother can do that for me, then perhaps I can do it for my own daughter. I'll try, at least. And I should succeed.

After all. That's what my mother raised me to do.

I Have A Follower :)

Lol. It's so exciting. Someone's added me to a little list somewhere, and now they're following my blog. Ooooh.

Of course, the excitement is slightly mitigated by the fact that I know exactly who it is. And then, like, the fact that I live with him as well... yeah thinking about it, I can't get too ecstatic. He's more doing it as a show of support, than a genuine interest in what I have to say.

But even so, I appreciate the effort. He doesn't have to follow my blog.

I'm not following his yet, haha.

So, points for you (you know who you are, and so does everyone else who knows me) and thanks for taking the time to read what I have to write.

Although (this is a broad question, directed at everyone) does that negate the need to listen to what I have to say...? If someone's attentive enough to reply to most of your texts, and read your online journal, and usually answer you if you have a specific question for them, do they have to, y'know, talk to you as well? Or is it enough to keep in touch via phone/Internet and, I don't know, maybe 10 minutes of conversation per day?

I hope someone posts about this. I'd love to hear anyone's thoughts.

*cringe*

Wow.

Sometimes, you write something, and then you're just embarrassed.

Suffice it to say I was having a really bad day on Tuesday. Which is not what I'm embarassed about--everyone has bad days, and shit luck, and I've had more than my fair share lately, plus my genetic predisposition to depression even when things are peachy--but the way I put it down was just so trite.

Boo hoo, life is unfair. Waaaah, men are shallow and sex-driven. Oh noes, I feel like I'm dying/already dead.

*cringe*

If I'd been auditioning to be the chorus of a My Chemical Romance song, it would've sounded better. But as it is, my obvious low mood and general fed-upness, which have proven themselves to be about as unique as my cheesy pop sensibilities, just read like more of the same boring shite (and I haven't even rhymed and set them to a snappy tune).

I can't believe I actually wrote an entire entry on the unfairness of life. Surely that's been said enough. Surely it's been felt enough, by enough people. Surely my comments on the subject are superfluous.

Then again, I defend the right of anyone to say/think/write/feel anything they need to, so maybe I'm being too hard on myself. Still, I'd be more impressed--or at least less unimpressed--if I'd managed to make my last entries sound a little less, well, whiny.

You know what I mean. A sonnet about slitting my throat. An all-men-suck haiku. A short story about aloneness. Not just, "Waaah, I'm so unhappy, why doesn't anyone care, lookit me lookit me I'm gonna stick my head in the oven."

Anyways. I'll work on that. No need to make people read reconstituted drivel, especially when they're taking the time to read my blog.

Which someone did (someone other than the 1 person who usually reads this). Which was surprising and nice. He's part of the reason I'm back on here today, instead of... well... writing a suicide sonnet.

So now I'm going to head right back to the other side of the sloppy sentimental spectrum, and send Kiri--I suppose I can use that, it's not even his real name, I hope he doesn't mind--lots and lots of hugs *sends hugs* Thanks, Kiri. You really cheered me up.

Why do I sound like I'm being sarcastic??? I'm so being serious, and I even sound sarcastic to myself. Nevermind that. My thank-you stands. But I'm going now, before I start singing, 'I Just Called to Say I Love You,' or some other, equally pants, love song.

Do You Like Scones?

I do. I prefer biscuits, American-style, but scones are good too.

I wish someone would make some for me. Or better yet, teach me how to make them myself. That would take longer, and be more interesting, and at the end of it, I'd have a new skill; and with some luck, I'd have a new friend, as well.

I am starving. I am wasting away, and not from lack of food.

Why is it that no matter how loudly I scream, NO ONE CAN HEAR ME?

can't be arsed to think up a title

I can't.

I can barely be arsed to write this, but I just feel so bad... I've gotta get the feeling out somehow.

It's a funny thing--mostly it's just funny that I still haven't figured this out--did ya know, something like 97% of all guys just want to fuck you... and the other 3% don't give a shit. You may as well not exist. Unless they want to bang you (and fancy their chances) you are invisible to every man you meet.

I direct these comments to women, of course, and likely gay guys... but I've had no experience as a gay guy, so I'm just guessing. My experience as a woman, sadly, has led me to the aforementioned (and soon to be repeated) conclusions.

Men are only after one thing. Some of them dress it up, and call it love, because they're so shy/afraid of disease that they want to stick to as few partners as possible, but really, they all just want to get laid.

Just. Just. Just.

I use that word a lot. When really, the situation is anything but just.

It's all so dreadfully unfair.

How can anyone be so ALONE, even when they're surrounded by people?

I can't even dredge up any more anger. There's only weakness left.

Sometimes I think my heart will simply stop; I marvel, in a detached, melancholy way, that it even has the energy left to beat. I can't muster the will required to smile, but, wonder of wonders, my body continues pumping pints upon pints of blood through miles and miles of the organic tubing known as my circulatory system...

There must be a God. I could not summon the strength to live, on my own.

W

I feel better now. Nothing like some Fraggle-time to get your mood up :)

Aside from Fraggles lifting my mood, I would like to mention the one genuine friend I've made, since coming to this strange land. He's a peach (soft, sweet, fuzzy) and some of his finer qualities include:

the fact that he's never judged me,

the fact that, generally speaking, he's a pretty nonjudgmental guy--he seems to be of the opinion that if someone he likes is doing something bad, there's a reason for it/there are extenuating circumstances,

the fact that he's never been sexually inappropriate with me (he is such a cyberslut, and he's working on becoming a real life slut, but he confines his actions to times when this behaviour is appropriate),

he's just fun to talk to--asks thought-provoking questions, knows nifty trivia, is an all-around bright, capable, nice-to-chat-to guy,

he's my friend. To the best of my recollection, he's never done anything to hurt me (I did once corner him into admitting I was fat, but hey, honesty is the best policy and it's not like he used that word; he tried to be tactful about it, and followed it up by mentioning how much weight I've lost and how good I look nowadays). The point is, where possible, he avoids hurting me. This marks a pleasant change from all the people who seem to go out of their way to verbally/emotionally attack me...

Anyways, he knows who he is, and I just thought I'd give him a little mention on here. I may as well, lol... I'm pretty sure he's the only one who ever reads this :)

Dance Your Cares Away!

I just feel like, once again, we're going to an unhappy place. Shake it off! And, c'mon over here. Let's dance.

da doo-da doo doo doo doo DOO doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo DOO... 'Dance your cares away! *clap clap* Worries for another day/Let the music play! *clap clap* Down in Fraggle Rock!'

And then

'Work your cares away. *tap tap* Dancing's for another day/Let the Fraggles play' *tap tap* Down in Fraggle Rock!'

Repeat as many times as necessary, until you've decided to either work or dance your cares away. As another groovy song says, 'The singing works just fine for me...'

So. I'm gonna go have a nice day, and you do too. Not that I'm convinced any of you are reading this; but then, I'm writing it for me, anyway.

Acquaintance

I have decided, based on past/current experiences, that I should re-evaluate my definition of the word, 'friend.' This is not to curtail anyone from attempting to be my friend--all applicants are welcome--but I need some sort of guideline, just to stop me from getting confused.

I need more real friends. I should attempt to learn how to spot them.

Or, failing that, I should attempt to weed out the shit friends by process of elimination. Here goes:

You are not my friend if I cannot trust you, even in the most minor ways. If you are going to continually stand me up, break plans, and force me to rearrange my schedule at a moment's notice if I want any chance of seeing you, you are not my friend.

You are not my friend if you continually call me a liar/assume the absolute worst about me. If I say something which could have 2 or more meanings, and you pick the worst one every single time, you are not my friend.

You are not my friend if you never ask about me. My life, my kids, my folks back home, etc. If all that's just trivia to you, then you are not my friend.

You are not my friend if I'm not allowed to have an opinion which differs from yours. If you are never wrong, resort to name-calling when losing an argument, and rain judgment down upon anyone who dares to disagree with you, you are not my friend (and probably not anyone else's, either).

Similarly to above: you are not my friend if I can't have an open, honest discussion with you. If you reject everything I say as invalid or irrelevent before I've even finished saying it, you are not my friend.

And finally, you are not my friend if you don't respect me. Regardless of the mistakes I've made in my life, I deserve at least basic civility. I deserve the right to make my own choices, without your censure. If you believe you have the right to tell me how to live my life, and then become enraged and abusive when I don't take your (half-assed, unresearched, made-up-in-your-head) advice, YOU ARE NOT MY FRIEND.

We can remain friendly acquaintances, because it is not in my nature to cause drama just for drama's sake. I will be civil, polite, courteous, etc, most likely even when you don't deserve it. But make no mistake. Unless you are capable of treating me with basic human decency--which is more important than being able to make me laugh, anyone can do that--then you are not my friend.

'Friend' -ship

Why is it that the most insensitive, most hurtful, most thoughtless people in the world, are always the ones who can't handle the truth about themselves?

I've been talking to one of my 'friends' again. She's been giving me grief for not leaving my insignificant other. Worse, she insinuated I was a liar when I said I couldn't get a council house.

So I basically told her she has no idea what she's talking about, nor any idea what it's like to be in my position--she doesn't, she's both surrounded by family and from a financially-comfortable background, and also has the advantage of being a citizen of this country--and bam, I get an abusive text full of 'shite's and 'fuck's and 'piss off's.

I am beginning to see a pattern developing here. The majority of 'friends' I have made in this country are selfish, self-serving, self-absorbed shits, with no respect for others' feelings and the empathy of a serial killer. To put it another way, I have bad taste in men, and worse taste in friends, at least lately.

This friend of mine, the one who always has a 'suggestion' of what I should do, who's so eager to help me... I have a four-month-old son she's never even seen. 2 weeks after he was born, 10 stitches in my ass, unable to sit down for a 2-hour stretch, I managed to make it to her wedding, and in the 3+ months since, she hasn't managed to drop by my house for an hour to meet my newest arrival. It's like she's so pissed off that I left her house--long story short, I briefly left my partner and then returned home last year--she doesn't want to have anything to do with any of the results of my return home (i.e. my youngest child).

She can fuck right off. She can just sit on a tack. No matter what she says about her own pathetically simple and meaningless problems (boo hoo, I eat 3,000 Calories a day, I want to kill myself because I'm a lard-ass) I offer support and encouragement, while she berates me for not making the choices SHE thinks I should make. She backs me into a corner until I feel I really have to defend myself against her slander, and then she bitches me out for daring to disagree with her make-believe version of events. Every time we have a disagreement, she not only refuses to try to understand my point of view, but insist that she's absolutely right in her opinion, regardless of how misinformed it is.

Sometimes I really think she's just thick as pigshit. Then I realise, no, she's bright enough to overcome her erratic, illogical, insulting, hurtful, narrow-minded behaviour--she just chooses not to.

Well fuck her, then.

A Moment of Silence

I am speechless.

I am speechless, not in the good way, by what I read on the BBC News webpage today. I don't know the words to express my own sad hopelessness, my own quiet despair, at the death of the little toddler thus far referred to as, 'Baby P.' I will pray for his father, and for his nan. I will take comfort that I have never doubted, even at times of spiritual crisis in my life, that there is a wonderful, eternal Heaven awaiting anyone who dies before a certain age (the age may vary depending on the individual's abilities and upbringing, but it's certainly always greater than 17 months).

I will pray for myself, that I don't give into the utter vicarious misery that I feel, when I think of that poor, suffering little boy. And I will thank the God I was taught to believe in, that whatever my personal failings, whatever emotional and spiritual instabilities have plagued me, I know it is not in me to willingly allow my children to be harmed. I don't understand Baby P's mother, and indeed, if I understood her better I would be sick to my stomach. I don't know that I could live, if I thought that I had the same kind of tendencies within me.

Which is not to say I don't have violent tendencies of my own. If I had been Baby P's mother, I might well be headed to prison now, but for an entirely different reason. I'd be off to HM prisons because the second he laid a hand on my son, I'd have ripped out my partner's entrails and choked him to death with them.

Ahem. And on that fiercely protective note--I'm glancing over at my babies even at this moment, making sure they are well--I'll resume my efforts to obtain peace through prayer. And I invite anyone who reads this (if anyone ever does) to join me in a moment of prayerful silence, on behalf of Baby P and those who loved him. I'm not bothered if you don't believe in the Judeo-Christian God I claim as my own. Pray to any god or goddess you like. I'm not even concerned if you don't believe in any god at all. By all means, light a white candle and send out your own inner goodness to his family. I'm just requesting that you take the time to remember a little boy who shouldn't have to be remembered at all.

He should be being experienced, for the next 60 or 70 years or so.

Let us pray.

Picky Eaters

Right. This is getting depressing. I think it's time for a good old-fashioned rant. Today's topic is entitled, 'Picky Eaters' a.k.a., 'Would You Like Some Raw Coconut and Monkey Steak Tartare with That?'.

I genuinely despise people who won't eat what's set before them. I loathe them so much more than you'd ever believe. It's such a waste of time, being a fussy eater. I find it mildly annoying in a young child, and in an adult, it's thoroughly unacceptable. If I were the President of the World, the first people my Death Squads would take out, would be the ones who turn up their noses at perfectly edible food they 'don't like'.

First of all, let me make it clear that I'm not referring to individuals who abstain from eating certain foods on religious or moral grounds. You're Jewish, you don't want a bite of my juicy and delicious lobster? Fair point, and I won't eat my juicy and delicious lobster in front of you, we can have bagels instead. You're Muslim, and you turn up your nose at my delectable pork barbecue? Turn off the grill, and let's have some halal kebab meat instead. You're a vegan, because you wholeheartedly believe that it's wrong to use animal products to sustain your own life? Come to my house, I have a selection of fresh fruit and vegetables available any time of day, any day of the week.

Because that's the point, you see. I have no religious or moral objections to eating anything, aside from human flesh (and that aversion could be overcome, if necessary) and so if I come to your house or you go to mine, there will always be something acceptable for us both to eat. I have learned, at a fairly late point in my life (post-childhood, anyway) to appreciate a wide variety of foods that I grew up without experiencing. I was pleased, when I moved here, to sample as many different types of cuisine as I could easily obtain, even the ones that were nutrionally dubious in origin (pot noodles, chip butties, any number of sickly-sweet, custard-or-treacle drowned puddings, etc). In my personal opinion, if an entire nation of people eats a food, that food is probably okay. Regardless of how foreign or strange or unlikely it seems to me, I'll give anything a try.

To date, I cannot think of a single food I dislike. Some I prefer to others, of course, but I love eating a huge variety of food from many vastly dissimilar cultures. Everyone loves their mother's cooking, and I'm no exception to that rule; but after growing up on a diet of fried chicken, potato salad, sweet iced tea and every fruit and vegetable common to my part of the world, I am very happy to state that I count Yorkshire Puddings, Rogan Joshes, cream-cheese-and-jalapeno poppers, and seafood paella among some of my favourite things to eat. And it's not just good food I'll eat.

I have adapted to this country's ludicrous treatment of beef (it's meant to be pink on the inside, not tough and grey and dried out). I have overcome my objection to vinegar being poured all over every food known to man (it's a natural cleaning agent, not a seasoning for everything from a pot-roast to fried potatoes). I have learned to 'eat' vegetables that could more easily be drunk (broccoli is supposed to be green and slightly crisp, not boiled until it dissolves of its own accord in one's mouth).

And yet, if I ask someone to try a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I get outright hostility. People tell me that's disgusting, without even letting me make a sandwich, nevermind taking a bite themselves.

I asked a friend of mine if she likes fruit pies, once (to an American, there's virtually no other kind of pie) and she said, ignorant and proud of it, "I don't like mixing sweet with savoury."

Mixing sweet with savoury? What the fuck has that got to do with anything? Did I ask her to run to the oven, pull the top off a Fray Bentos pie, and pour cherry filling inside, to mingle with the gravy and mushrooms? A half a second of contemplation, or a basic knowledge of other cultures, would have clued her in to the fact that piecrust for fruit pies is sweet itself, and not salty/savoury. Duh. The first time I heard of corned-beef pie, my eyebrows nearly disappeared into my hairline for the same reason (from the opposite perspective--why would you stick meat inside a piecrust, which anyone knows is sweet???) but I kept my apprehension to myself, assumed I had the wrong idea about that particular culinary delight, and waited to try it.

And I liked it. But then, I usually do. Because I have a tolerant and questing mind, I'm usually able to chuck my preconceptions out the proverbial window, no matter how ingrained they are. And it's particularly easy with food--to my mind, no matter how odd it sounds to me, if 50 million people like it, can it really be that bad?

Not that 50 million people is the benchmark. If you came up to me and told me that you'd created a new recipe, and it was a bit strange but you thought it was nice, then I'd be happy to try it. Why not? What does it hurt to have an open mind about food, for godsake?

Food prejudice is nearly as bad as ethnic/racial perjudice, for exactly the same reason. Lack of understanding should never be the reason for turning away from a new situation or experience. Bad enough that people who turn away mindlessly are denying themselves potentially rewarding experiences, but even worse, those are the same sort of people who tend to castigate others for their uniqueness.

I once had a friend of mine jump down my throat for eating cold food out of the tin. Not once did she mention that that's a good way to contract food poisoning--a logical statement that would've at least made me consider stopping--she just went on and on about how gross it was, and how it was a waste of time cooking for me, since I eat crap anyway.

Not so. I greatly appreciate virtually any style of home-cooking, no doubt more thoroughly than someone who only eats the five basic Anglo-Continental meals her mother cooked when she was growing up. But liking a nice, hot serving of, let's say, beef lasagne with spring vegetables, doesn't mean I turn my nose up at cold spaghetti and sausages (another bizarre combination that I've grown to enjoy, in the last few years).

At the risk of repeating myself, I have to say that claiming not to like any general type of food, really ticks me off. You know what I mean. I know a guy who won't eat legumes of any sort, another who refuses to eat any type of nut, someone who won't eat anything with mayonnaise, someone else who won't try mushrooms because, "they're a fungus," loads of people who won't try Indian or Chinese food because they don't like 'spicy' food (so I guess that cinnamon they just sprinkled on their French Toast has to be wiped off before they'll eat it)...

Basically, my attitude is this. If you have an attitude regarding food, either the way I eat it or foreign food in general, I sincerely hope you wind up stranded on a deserted island, with nothing to eat but raw coconut and monkey steak tartare. You'll soon learn to appreciate food other than your mother's Yorkshire Puddings and gravy.

But I genuinely don't understand. Why does it have to come to imminent starvation before you'll take a chance on something new?

Jessica Rabbit

My children are off-limits, though. They are too young and too innocent for me to begin picking them apart on a webpage that anyone can read. Until I can be sure that what I say won't hurt them, I should say nothing at all about them, except for the fact that they are young and innocent and as yet undamaged by life. I will keep them so, for as long as I can.

So I'll talk about my sister, instead--the one I'm referring to as Jessica Rabbit.

I'm not sure where to begin. She writes about me all the time, and she is always effortlessly generous in her portrayal. I am always the brightest, the best, the most bountifully kind big sister who ever lived, a genius with words, a genie at granting wishes, everything she would like to be and is not, with all the coolest friends, and wittiest comments, and cleverest thoughts. She tells me I am beautiful, when I have always been squinty-eyed and chubby; she tells me I am good, when I have always been cruel and self-centred.

The reality is that my sister is, if not all, certainly many of the things I would like to be. She is tall and strong and evenly-formed, with long legs and pert breasts and a generally hourglass-shaped figure. Her skin is pale and perfect, well not perfect, but smooth and clean and soft, and she has big blue eyes that glitter like diamonds and bright soft hair that shines like the sun. Her lips are better than mine--fuller, plumper, less prone to frowning. The curve of her jaw and cheek has fascinated me for years; when I look in the mirror, I see my own slashing cheekbones and square-jawed intensity, and I long for the soft suppleness of my sister's features.

Growing up, we used to joke (in the tasteless way that children do) that she was a member of the German elite, and I was a fat (my word, not hers) little Jewish princess. I understood the compliment she was implying--she sees me as exotic, quirky, unique--but it was overwritten by her sheer physical superiority.

Yes. I am a little exotic-looking, in the right light and with a little make-up and if I'm at one of the slimmer stages of my life. And I have an odd sense of who I am, which makes me periodically attractive to a variety of interesting people.

She is genuinely lovely to look at, and curvy, and has better breasts and better legs and a better face and is generally more likable. She is sometimes something of a people-pleaser, and has mastered the art of sincere compliments and tactful let-downs; anyone can see that her heart is in the right place and that she is fiercely, overwhelmingly loyal to those she loves and faultlessly kind to those she's only just met. Everyone, common or cultured, base or blase, average or august, likes her.

I am known for saying what I think. Generous people think I'm honest; honest people think I'm blunt; harsh or sensitive people think I'm damn rude.

My sister, on the other hand, is known for saying what she should. What will make people feel better. What will help the situation.

We make a fine pair. I piss people off, she soothes their wounded egos. I bring friends into our circle, she makes sure they never want to leave. I come up with ideas, she brings them to fruition.

All this, and she has friends and ideas and thoughts of her own, and they're at least as good (and often better) than mine. It is her generosity of spirit that makes me into the intellectually superior of the two of us--and even her generosity can't make me the more physically attractive.

As usual, life has conspired to make the prettier of two sisters also the more popular, the more creative, the more musically-gifted, the more pleasant to be around. Oh I've got a little bit of something, I grant you that, and if you know me I'll bet you that you like me almost in spite of yourself, even though you don't know why... but there is nothing so sweet, so purely thoughtful, so simply enjoyable about me, as there is about her.

And let's not forget. Physically, she's a 5' 10" Jessica Rabbit type, and I'm more like the real-life embodiment of... of... there's not even a cartoon character that corresponds to me, I'm that boring.

Though, personality-wise, I'm like a cross between Droopy Dog, Garfield, and Ren. Which is interesting. Different. Unique.

These are the words you learn at a very young age, when you're as weird as I am.

But I'd so much rather be all the things I say about my sister. Kind-hearted. Attractive. Has groovy hair. Plays a musical instrument or three. Can read music, which after 8 years of chorus is still beyond my ability. Good at math. Good at lab sciences. Can actually draw/paint/sketch, at least enough to pass a highschool art class. Is outgoing. Sets people at ease, effortlessly.

And yet. There's still a hint of something broken, something not quite right, about my sister. She doubts herself, at a level that's so deep and so secret few of her friends would even realise it's there. Like me, like my parents, in spite of all her natural talents and qualities, my sister has not yet managed to attain the life she wants, largely due to her own inner demons.

Still. Out of the four of us, she's the youngest, and arguably the one with the most drive, the greatest determination. If there's hope for anyone, there's hope for her, and because of the person she is, she will eventually make the most of it. I hope.

Me - continued

So. I won't stop with saying I'm immature and broken, like a little glass teddy bear that's been dropped a hundred times and hasn't quite shattered, but rather been chipped and fragmented, leaving razor-sharp edges upon which the unwary can slice themselves open... I'll go one further, and try to explain why I'm this way. Not that you care, probably, but this is my blog. The whole point is to give me an outlet. I'm trying to make myself feel better. Your participation is not mandatory.

The main reason I am the way I am is, as with most personality traits, simple genetic predisposition. If you'd ever met my parents, or my sister... she's gonna need a name, really, and even though everyone who might ever read this knows who she is, I'm not going to put her actual name on the site. It's too personal. My sister shall be referred to as Jessica Rabbit, first of all because she is a long, slinky, red-headed Jessica Rabbit type, and secondly, because I can be generous with her. In real life, she's not bad--she's not even drawn that way--but I think she always wanted to be. So, in my blog, she can be bad, in exactly the nicest way a woman can be bad.

So. We'll start with my parents, and move onto my sister in a moment.

If you know my dad, you'll know that he's a sort of blustery, boisterous, aging Lothario, life-of-the-party type. His liveliness generally comes from alcohol, and later becomes belligerance (in that, he and I are very much alike--I'm like a church mouse unless I've had a few pints, then a party animal, then a crazy bitch with a chip on my shoulder) but in his natural state, my dad's actually kind of shy and sweet. He likes children, in the appropriate way. Coaches baseball. Has been, basically, a dog whisperer all his life, in spite of being bitten when he was quite young. Instead of giving him a phobia, it gave him a sort of transcendental calm. I have seen him place his hand on a snarling German Shepherd (the dog breed, not a blonde called Klaus who watches sheep) and within seconds, the dog is relaxed, friendly, tail wagging away, a slightly bewildered look on its face, as if to say, "Wait a second, I'm a finely-honed, well-trained, eat-small-children-for-breakfast attack dog. How the heck did that guy just come up and start rubbing my belly?" But by then, the battle has been lost, and the dog and my dad are friends for life. Seriously, life. If my dad disappears, then shows up two years later, the dog gets one sniff of him, and starts rolling around on his back, a playful puppy once more (I am not exaggerating, I have seen this with my own eyes).

So that's my dad, naturally. A lover of animals. A gentle man, who prefers coaching baseball and soccer, to having wild nights out. A melancholy soul, who chases women, not because he's a tart, but because he needs the affection and kindness that only women can provide; he needs the tenderness that was so absent from his own childhood.

But. The flip side of that, is an angry, bitter little boy, prone to temper tantrums and childish outbursts, who will never fully understand or accept the fact that life's not fair. His sensitive soul is continually buffeted by even the most minor storms, no insult or injury is beneath his notice, and with every passing day, he becomes more and more wounded by all the shit that life throws at him. He is self-destructive, prone to addiction, and desperate to escape the lonely confines of his own tortured thoughts (also, he has a chemical imbalance).

And my mother. She is so quiet, so shy, that she makes him seem like the party animal he tries so hard to portray. She believes in a loving God, who, if she were honest with herself, continually lets her down. He giveth, and He taketh away, and she refuses to assign blame, but instead, cries in the night and beats her breast and prays for a brighter tomorrow, and all the time, she is tormented by thoughts of her own failings and inadequacies. She claims to be a happy, easy-going person, but I know that deep down, my mother contemplates suicide every day. She is tired, and often feels defeated. Because she is so merciful and forgiving, people think she is emotionally resilient, and they just shit on her, all the time, never seeing that every time she lets another one of them step on her, a part of her soul is crushed into dust.

But she accepts it as her Christian duty, her struggle to be a good person, and she lets the entire world take advantage of her. She is not prone to rages, like Daddy, but she cries when she is all alone. My mother--Mama--is as wounded as my father, but in the way of a woman, a mother, she keeps her hurts to herself, nursing them silently, sometimes not nursing them at all.

It's hard to say which of them I worry about more. My dad, recklessly self-destructive, perfectly capable of accidentally committing suicide, or my mom, apparently patient, withdrawn, carrying around a festering internal hurt that no one ever thinks to ease.

And this combination, this myriad cesspool of dark and bright, of tears and wrath, of supreme selfishness and subservient selflessness, is the crockpot that simmered the stew of my sister's and my own DNA.

It is no wonder that we are the way we are. The wonder is that any of the four of us have managed to make it to adulthood and beyond. My parents are middle-aged now. I have children of my own. People who are, ostensibly, too fragile to live, have in their own way flourished, and even managed to breed.

But I look at my children, and I am so afraid. What if they turn out like me, like my mother, like my father? Worse yet, what if they turn out like their father?

And so, I am resigned to my mother's role in life. To pray, to forbear: to hope for better things for my children, than were given to me. And yet I know, we are at best only marginally better than the sum of our parts. More often, we are no greater than that, and usually less.

I look at the parts that have gone into making my own son and daughter, and I wonder; how will they rise above that? And I think of the parts that have gone into making me, and I wonder, how on earth will I give them anything better than the life that I had?

But the truth is, my life has been better than that of my parents. I am better off than they were, at my age. And so, with a little luck, my kids' lives will be better still.

And where they're concerned, at least, I will make every effort to smooth my own rough edges. I would not have them cut themselves on me. And maybe if they don't, they'll grow up softer, rounder, less abrasive than I did.

I do not want this trend to continue.

I want my children, at least, to be happy.

Me

Okay. I just have to explain something. It’s about my name on this site—Bitter Candle Girl.
Now, the bitter part should be fairly obvious. There’s a definite thread of acid running through most of what I write (and most of what I say in real life, so if we ever meet up, be prepared). And the candle part, although slightly less obvious, is still pretty reasonable—I’m letting my light shine, yadda yadda yadda. So I’m bitter, but I’ve got my candle out, burning away. Woot.
It’s the girl part that I wonder about. I am, I suppose, a little old to be referring to myself as a girl. I feel a need to justify this appellation.
First of all, ‘woman’ is such an earthy, sexy word. When I say the word ‘woman,’ I get a mental image of Betty Page, Marilyn Monroe, Beyonce Knowles: beautiful, curvaceous, confident-seeming women, who are just generally good enough to eat. I’m not saying that to be a woman, you have to be beautiful or sexy, but that’s part of my personal connation of the term. Or, on the other hand, you can be a woman by being strong, intelligent, and dynamic. Eleanor Roosevelt, Harper Lee, Maya Angelou, those are all women, and they’ve earned the title far more completely than I ever have.
Me, though. There’s a line from a Counting Crows song that describes me pretty well; “she had something breakable just under her skin…”. That does a good job of summing me up. There’s something a little bit fragile, a little bit sharp about me, and mind you don’t cut yourself on the edges of who I am. Whereas if I were a woman, a real, confident, sexy, powerful woman, I would be secure enough in myself to be a combination of velvety softness and soothing, warming heat (like the kind of heat you get from drinking whiskey. The kind that gives you a little, not unpleasant, kick in the gut).
Again. That’s not me. So until it is, I’ll have to forego calling myself a woman, and stick with girl. But please don’t read this expecting me to be some perky nineteen-year-old, because I’m not. I’m exactly what the sign says.
Bitter. Burning. And a little bit juvenile.

Catch-22

I love to play the, 'What if...?' Game. You know the one I mean, where you think about a choice you made, and go down all the different choices you might have made, and try to figure out how much your life might have changed as a result. I prefer doing it with fictional characters when I feel they've had too rough a time of it. In the Harry Potter series, for instance, my Severus Snape is saved from Voldemort's snake by an unrequited love spell, the spell-caster turns out to be one of his students who's actually a witch under an anti-aging spell, he learns to love again as a result of her unrequited love shielding him from death, at that point she begins to age normally once more, they marry, have a son, and the son grows up to marry Harry/Ginny's daughter named Lily... so Severus Snape's son marries Lily Potter, in a way allowing Severus to fall in love with Lily all over again, and finally giving him a legitimate way to become part of her family. Awww. And then, if I take the fantasy out a little further, that Lily has a daughter, with the same green Lily eyes, middle name also Lily, and Severus gets to fall in love with Lily for the third and final time, as his favourite grandchild. Super awww.

Now, that only even vaguely matters (or makes any sense to you) if you're a fan of Harry Potter, but you can still appreciate the general idea. I enjoy the game, and my primary purpose in playing it is to make the universe better for someone, albeit someone who doesn't exist.

I was playing it earlier, and I realised--and it may come as a shock that I had to 'realise' this, but bear with me--I realised that you can really only play the What if? Game in your imagination. You can't do it in real life, regardless of how good your intentions might be. You can't go back and undo things that you maybe shouldn't have done in the first place. You can't go back to the root of a problem, and correct things before they get out of hand.

What I mean is, take my parents. Now, they've been divorced for two decades, and that was my mother's attempt to fix something that she maybe shouldn't have done in the first place. The problem being, of course, that she couldn't erase it; my sister and I already existed. Not that my mother would have it any other way. I know, in the way that I know very few things, that she would never want to erase us, no matter the cost (and the cost to my mother was, in so many ways, unfathomably steep). But our existence means that her marriage to my father also continues to exist, on some level. She'll always be reminded of it. She'll always be stumbling upon some memory of that time, that makes her cringe or cry or feel ashamed. Because of us, she will never fully escape the memory of my father. A guy who, as a daddy, is usually above-par in a lot of ways. But as a husband... being married to him nearly destroyed my mother.

And now, she can never truly recover from those memories. She can never stop reliving, in the back of her mind, all the ways in which she and my father hurt each other.

I sympathise. Worse than that, I have reason to empathise, which I know breaks my mother's heart. But just like my mother, there's nothing I can do about it. No matter what I do, I cannot rectify my current situation. And even if I could, I wouldn't. I couldn't, for the same reason my mother wouldn't go back in time and avoid meeting Daddy, even if she could.

Sometimes life is nothing more than the perfect illustration of the phrase 'Catch-22'.

J - continued

Well.

As you can see, the last post threw me a bit. Or not the post, so much as the email that prompted it. It's taken me a couple of days to get my head round it, and I can't help comparing my old friend to one of my newer friends. They're very similar, in that they both ALWAYS assume the worst about me.

This friend, the newer one--I've wanted to show her my blog since I started it, but I've been apprehensive. I know, as soon as she sees it, she'll think that she's the person mentioned in 'My Fat Friend'

Nevermind that I know 2 people on the Cambridge Diet (that's not even what she called it, so how'd I know the name of it, if she was the only one doing it?). Nevermind that she's not 3 inches shorter than me, or 30 lbs heavier. Nevermind that, to the best of my knowledge, she doesn't even wear glasses, much less glasses that I've seen so often I can describe them in detail.

When she sees that entry, she'll latch onto the fact that she's been on that diet and she is a little shorter than me, and she'll assume it's all about her. And she'll not speak to me for 3 weeks, or 6 months, or until the next time she bumps into me in town... you get the picture.

And the older friend, no doubt I've pissed him off with my response to his email, and soon I'll get the (10th or so) email bearing his favourite phrase; 'you're dead to me,' and it'll be another 6 months (at least) before I hear from him again.

The thing is, I don't see how they can't see that they're being ridiculous. They do this so often, and with so many people (they've each had numerous fallings out, with a wide variety of people--how can they think the problem's not their own?) I find it hard to believe that they don't enjoy it on some level. A low, nasty, horrible little level that we've probably all got inside of us, but most of us are aware of having, and try to suppress or at least understand.

I suppose when you're always right, it's hard to change your behaviour.

J.

I have this friend. I wonder that I even call him that, sometimes. Since we've been children, it seems like we've devoted as much time to hurting each other as we have to being friends.

If you were to ask either one of us, we'd say that it's not our fault, that the other is too sensitive/insensitive, depending on the situation. He would argue that I say deliberately contemptuous things. I would insist that he never listens to what I'm saying, but hears everything through the shield of his own self-loathing. He would say that he has been one of my best friends, always. I feel that I have been as good a friend to him, as he has been to me.

If we were both honest, we would admit that for every kind deed we have offered, we have been repaid with cruelty. The very reason our acts of kindness to each other are so unexpected is not because they are rare--we have often been surprisingly kind and empathetic to each other--but because they are just as likely to turn into acts of malice before they are finished. We have apologised and made-up a hundred times, we have gone years without speaking, we have been reunited on half a dozen occasions; and at base, nothing ever changes.


I am not stupid. I KNOW the most prudent course of action is to just let him go. I know that if I hang onto him, he will continue to wound me, and I him. And I will do what I must.


And what I must do, is hold onto him all the more tightly. I have loved him all my life, and will not lose another friend. Not him. It's not worth it. I would rather eat humble pie every day for the rest of my life, I would rather field every tantrum he can throw at me, I would rather apologise for imagined slights every time I open my mouth, than to never speak to him again.


He is more dear to me that he could ever believe. I wish our relationship didn't have to be this way, but I accept that it is. I accept everything about him, because he is my friend.


I wish he believed, I wish he knew, I am his.

Nazi Britain

Do you know, sometimes I can’t stand this fascist country. It’s beyond restrictive; it’s ridiculous. Appalling. Downright terrifying.
Everyone’s seen the whole Jonathan Ross/Russell Brand thing, right? If not, basically they made a prank phone call on the air, and it’s been blown out of proportion. Of course it’s not nice to leave an answer phone message saying you’ve fucked someone’s granddaughter, etc—but that’s what makes it so funny. How amusing would it be if the message went like this?

Jonathan Ross: Hi Andrew, just letting you know, we’ll be popping round later for a cup of tea with your granddaughter.
Russell Brand: Yes, Georgina’s a lovely girl. Really can’t wait to see her again.
JR: Right, that was it, thanks.
RB: Cheerio now.

WTF???

It’s not like this has never occurred before. Loads of ordinary folks get pranked on radio all the time, and most of them just laugh it off. I find it difficult to comprehend that anyone, especially someone who has a reasonable amount of money and a highly-respected position in the British television community, can’t just ignore a little fun being had at their expense. For godsake. It’s how he made his name in TV in the first place.
I suppose some people think it’s less degrading to be called an imbecile a thousand times in a comedy show, than it is to have your granddaughter paid the (admittedly base) compliment of being told Russell Brand would like to/has fucked her.
Personally, I’d be flattered. Especially if I went round looking, as it happens, like a satanic slut in the first place.
But that’s neither here nor there. The problem isn’t so much that Georgina Baillie was offended—it’s the response of the tens of thousands of people who belatedly jumped on the bandwagon and called in/wrote/etc, to say they were offended too, the mindless sheep. It’s Andrew Sachs, using his standing and influence to have Russell and Jonathan punished. It’s Ofcom calling the BBC and saying this will not be tolerated. FFS.
You can’t have a supersized McDonald’s because it’s bad for you, in this country. You can’t watch a naughty film before 9 p.m. In a few years, we’ll all have I.D. cards, which we’ll have to carry around everywhere with us, because you never know, EVERYONE might just be a terrorist.
When are we going to wake up and realise that we live in what is basically becoming Nazi Germany? With everything decided for us, our personal freedoms are just slipping away. It’s horrifying. I don’t know what can be done about it, but something should be.

Just a Question

I have a question.
I was watching Barney and Friends with my kids the other day. No doubt you know of the show—it’s probably syndicated in, I don’t know, Iran, expedition scientists in Antarctica can probably get it on public TV channel 1—but if you’ve never watched it, the big purple dinodrone has little dino friends (much smaller dino friends—midgets?) who come over to play with the kids. And I was noticing, they all have attribute-specific names.
For example, there’s a little green dinosaur, and aside from her ear-splittingly squeaky voice and naff yellow security blanket, she also wears bright pink ballet shoes and has a tendency to break into spontaneous bouts of arrhythmic dancing. Her name is Baby Bop. Get it? And her cousin, Riff, an annoying orange fellow with a voice like sandpaper, is an apparent musical genius; he’s forever putting on impromptu concerts and writing gay songs and strumming solos on his neon plastic guitar.
I get why the creators of the show have done that. I even think it’s kind of cute, and I bet the children who watch the show think it’s thrillingly clever when they finally get it. But my question, and I think it’s a valid one, pertains to Baby Bop’s older brother. This little dinosaur doesn’t seem particularly keen on any one activity, isn’t really a singer or a dancer or an artist or anything, and has no obvious talents above and beyond being irritating.
His name is BJ.
I just have to wonder—what’s HIS special skill?

Men vs. Women

Just a question—why is it that women have such shit taste in movies? Don’t tell me it’s not politically correct to say that, and please don’t accuse me of being unfair to my gender, because you know it’s true. Even the coolest girls in the world like some of the lamest movies. Worse than that, they don’t like some of the most awesome movies ever made.
Just as an example—Sin City. How good is that movie??? And I’m sure some girls like it, but other than myself, I’ve yet to find one… so I’ll have to assume, it’s not gonna make any female-compiled Top 10 list any time soon. Which is pants. Pants! It’s a triumph of cinematic genius; even I’m too much of a girl to read comics/graphic novels, but that movie makes me wish I did. Tremendous! Along with, most likely, anything else Quentin Tarantino’s ever done, but how many girls list him as one of their favourite directors? How many girls even list any directors they like? It’s a damn shame, and it makes me embarrassed for us all.
Some days, I think I’d rather be a guy. Then I look at myself in the mirror and think, “Nah, I’m better this way.”
But if not for my looks—which aren’t great, but I like them—I’d seriously consider a gender swap.
Not that being a guy’s all it’s cracked up to be. I think that’s due to their higher amounts of testosterone. Those levels usually give their man-brains a degree of confidence women can only dream of; however, they occasionally slip over into ludicrous level and prevent the man in question from realising when he’s being ridiculous. I’ll show you what I mean.
The other night, I’m lying in bed, next to my insignificant other, and we’re chatting away. Not about anything in particular, just rehashing the day, and as we snuggle up, on the verge of sleep, I ask him something. It’s so innocuous, I don’t even remember what I said, but here goes a more or less accurate rendition of the conversation:

Me: “Babe? Did you just fart?”
Insignificant Other: “It wasn’t me, it was the Star Destroyer’s fault.”
Me: pause, then pissing myself laughing
Insignificant Other: “Did I just say…? Aw, bollocks.”

So now, he’s going to hear me retelling that story for the rest of his life, or however long we stay together. Whereas I, even when on the edge of the abyss of slumber, have the wherewithal to catch myself before saying something moronic. For example:

Insignificant Other: “Blah blah blah Star Wars blah blah Natalie Portman.”
Me: Imagining myself as Padme, about to say that I am she… “I…. ahhh,” makes yawning noise, “Yes she is way cool, but I’m nearly asleep, Babe.”
Insignificant Other: “Okay, sweet dreams.”
Me: *snore*

You see? You see how I saved that?

But women still have shit taste in movies.

If It Makes You Happy...

I used to know this guy (know—read, used to date, and am now ashamed of myself and therefore downplaying that fact) who liked to sit in the dark on his kitchen floor and eat sandwiches.
Now me, I have a philosophy on life, and it’s more or less a variation on, “if it makes you happy, it can’t be that bad;" I genuinely feel that way. And me, hey, I don’t care if you want to sit cross-legged in the dark, munching your way through an entire loaf of Warburtons. Enjoy.
But I’ve got this friend, and she, well, her philosophy is more like, “I’d rather laugh at you, than with you,” and she thought she’d died and gone to Heaven when she walked into her kitchen (her kitchen, he didn’t even have the decency to keep his dirty habits to himself) and saw him chowing down on a ham and cheese toastie. For the rest of our relationship, she wouldn’t call him by his name, just referred to him as ‘Secret Sandwiches’. Easygoing as he was, it eventually pissed him off. Open-minded and tolerant as I am, I couldn’t help but burst out laughing whenever she did it; especially after it started to piss him off.
In the end, he decided I didn’t make him happy, and buggered off, probably to find a girl who respects his right to be at one with the lino and wholemeal. So he left. Not surprisingly, it wasn’t that bad.

My Fat Friend

So. I have this friend, who’s decided she’s going on the Cambridge Diet. Basically, it’s a pure liquid diet—you drink 3 shakes a day, get all your vitamins and minerals and almost no Calories, and you lose weight like an anorectic chemo patient, i.e. the fat flies off you at approximately twice the speed of sound.
The thing is, she’s that friend every girl has. You know the one I mean. She’s about 3 inches shorter than me, a good 20 or 30 lbs heavier, and she wears daft glasses. I mean she thinks they’re funky and cool, with their little purple plastic rims, but actually, they just make her look even more like the geek she is, as well as highlighting the fact that she has atrocious vision.
So. What it boils down to is this. I will NOT allow her to be skinnier than me. Even if I have to give up food altogether, or vomit after every meal, or join WeightWatchers and actually NOT cheat, I will not let her become a size smaller than me. It’s not meant to be. It’s not right. It’s against the laws of both God and Nature.
Yeah. She thinks that by Christmas, she’ll be the slimmer of the two of us. We’ll just see about that.

This just in!

Breaking news. I no longer want to be a porn star when I grow up. I have now decided that I would rather be a Fraggle, mostly due to the fact that Fraggles apparently have a 30-minute work week.

Sweet.